


Love in the Time of Blood

by Fictionista654



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Femslash, Internalized Homophobia, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 02:30:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18791179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fictionista654/pseuds/Fictionista654
Summary: Wherein Morgana learns that love isn't wrong.





	Love in the Time of Blood

The cut ran deep and true, like a red river over Morgana’s wrist. She dropped the dagger and leaned back against her pillows, gritting her teeth and trying to ignore the lashing pain. Her shadow, cast by the candle burning at her bedside, flickered over the high stone ceiling. Though her bedclothes were wet with blood, she wasn’t scared. The time for being scared was over. Her eyelids weighed a thousand pounds, and she closed her eyes on the world. With each beat of her heart, more life-force pulsed from her body; all she had to do now was wait. She was done. Thank the gods; she was done.

***

On Morgana’s first night in Camelot, her nurse, Anna, dressed her in a purple gown cut from a bolt of Eastern fabric called taffeta. It was cool to the touch and rustled when Morgana walked. When Morgana was dressed, Anna brushed her sleek black hair a thousand strokes—it hadn’t been set with curlers and so was straight as a sheet of glass—until it shone glossily down her back and applied a touch of rogue to her lips and cheeks. Then Anna presented Morgana to Uther as if she were a doll. Look at how pretty it is! How lovely its dress! How green its eyes!

“My child,” Uther said, stepping down from his throne and approaching her so fast that his cloak billowed behind him. “I am overjoyed to see you again.” Morgana’s arms hung stiffly by her side as the King of Camelot hugged her. His son, two years older than Morgana, so twelve at the time, gazed curiously at her from his own small throne. He was young, but already handsome, with golden-blond hair and sky-blue eyes. Morgana hated him because her emotions were the last thing that were truly hers to do with as she pleased.

***

In Morgana’s thirteenth winter, a visiting nobleman brought his blonde wisp of a daughter to see if something could be arranged with the unbetrothed prince. Her name was Lenora, and she had a constant cough and a runny nose and limpid eyes. When Lenora was presented in the throne room, Morgana couldn’t keep her eyes off her. She wanted to scoop this girl into her arms and hug away the fear in her eyes. Morgana was lucky; as Lenora’s age-mate, she was tasked with entertaining the pretty convalescent.

As it turned out, Lenora had a quick mind and a quicker tongue. What she lacked physical strength she made up with sheer mental prowess. She beat Morgana three times in a row at chess, and the expression she made when had Morgana in check made Morgana’s cheeks flame.

“But that I had realized sooner what a formidable opponent you are,” Morgana said, to cover up the flutter in her blood, “I would not have been so hasty in recommending this pastime.”

Lenora dimpled as she reset her pieces. “You are too kind, my lady.”

“Am I?” Morgana said idly. “Anna, would you mind terribly fetching us refreshments?”

Morgana rarely made requests, and Anna, who’d been sitting in Morgana’s window seat working at a bit of embroidery, raised her eyebrows. To Morgana’s relief, she left without comment. “There,” said Morgana, smiling across the table at Lenora. “It always feels much freer without an adult around, don’t you agree?”

“I feel as if I am finally able to breathe,” Lenora agreed, rising from her chair. The hem of her pink gown whispered against the stone floor as she crossed to Morgana’s side and took the seat to her right. Morgana’s heart tapped insistently at her throat. Lenora was so close that Morgana could see the thick ring of darker green around her spring-green irises and the individual glinting strands in her honey-colored hair. Before Morgana’s thoughts could catch up with her actions, she stroked a lock of that alluring hair with her fingertips.

“So soft,” Morgana said breathlessly. “Like silk.”

Lenora’s lips curved into the tiniest smile. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” said Morgana, too sharply. “I mean, my name is Morgana, not _my lady_.”

“I apologize, my—Morgana.” _My Morgana_.

“It is quite all right, my Lenora,” Morgana said.

Lenora’s lips parted, revealing two perfect rows of teeth. “Morgana?”

Morgana’s fingers clutched the skirt of her gown. “Yes?”

“I have a question,” said Lenora, her eyelashes flicking away the sunlight cutting through the window.

“Anything,” Morgana said, a tad too impassioned. Lenora coughed delicately into her closed fist and blushed down at the floor.

“Do you…do you know…”

“Yes?” said Morgana, scarcely able to breathe. “What is it?”

“Do you know if Arthur has said anything about me?”

Morgana’s heart plummeted like a thrown stone. “Not as yet,” she said, and was vindicated to see the disappointed expression that flashed across Lenora’s face.

***

Lenora was not the first, nor was she the last. Kitchen maids, princesses, village girls—they all caught Morgana’s eye. But whenever Morgana found herself alone with one, she’d remember Lenora and a shameful predatory feeling would cage her heart. She was the corrupted one, the unnatural one. She couldn’t do that to anyone else.

A year after Lenora, Isolde Beau-Mains, heir apparent to the furthest of the five kingdoms, came to court in a flurry of carriages and ladies-in-waiting and trunks of frilly underthings. Isolde was known for her her bone-white skin, and wherever she went, a lady-in-waiting followed with a parasol over her head. Isolde’s teeth were so sharp that Morgana wondered if she filed them as well as cleaned them.

On Isolde’s second day, Morgana brought her to the marketplace. Isolde sniffed. “Your maid doesn’t do this for you?”

“I think you’ll find the market to be an excellent source of entertainment,” said Morgana, sorting through a pile of silk scarves.

“I suppose the stocks are interesting,” Isolde admitted. Morgana followed Isolde’s eyes to the poor woman held there, sweat sopping her thick red hair.

“It’s barbaric,” Morgana said. “Leaving that poor woman in the sun all day.” Without waiting for Isolde, she marched across the square to the prisoner. “Are you all right?”

The woman squinted up through the sunlight. “My lady,” she said immediately. “It was my fault; I tripped on the king’s train.”

Morgana rolled her eyes. “Guards!” she called. Two of them materialized at once, both dressed in full armor. They must have been sweltering in the heat, but Morgana couldn’t find it in herself to feel bad for them. “This woman has been here long enough. Let her go.” When the guards did nothing, she added, “The king sent me himself. I don’t think he’d be happy to hear that you ignored his ward.” The guards still seemed unsure, but they folded under Morgana’s glare and unlocked the stocks.

“Thank you,” the woman said fervently as she worked a kink out of her neck. “I won’t forget this, my lady.”

“I should think not,” said a voice from behind Morgana. Isolde, three ladies-in-waiting behind her. “The lady Morgana owes you nothing, but she helped you anyway. And yet you don’t even bow.”

The woman apologized and curtsied so deeply that her knees almost touched the ground. Isolde wrinkled her nose.

“What is your name?” said Morgana, resolutely ignoring Isolde.

“Tammy, my lady.”

“Tammy,” Morgana said, “I apologize for my guardian. Now go, before he realizes what I’ve done and has us both killed.” She smiled to show that she was joking, mostly. Tammy curtsied once more and disappeared into the crowd.

“Why did you do that?” Isolde said that afternoon, when the two of them had retired to the rose garden.

“Our first duty is to our subjects,” said Morgana. “That is something I do not take lightly.”

“And if it had been a man in the stocks?” said Isolde. “Would you have been so kind?” Morgana stiffened.

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t pretend,” said Isolde, her voice dripping sugar-water. “I see the way you look at me.”

Morgana couldn’t speak. Her teeth were wired together. That was impossible, she didn’t even _like_ Isolde, how could Isolde tell? But she didn’t even like her! Except when she’d first seen Isolde in the throne room, maybe she’d betrayed how lovely she found Isolde, because you’d have to be blind not to see how beautiful she was and—

“Oh, relax!” laughed Isolde. “I was only teasing.”

“Of course,” Morgana said numbly. Of course Isolde was teasing. Because what kind of girl felt the way Morgana did about—about other—

No. Morgana wouldn’t think it. She wouldn’t say it. She imagined all her wayward thoughts as a rose growing from her heart. She plucked the rose and placed it in a stone box and locked it with an iron key and tucked it behind behind her ribs. There it would stay for two years, until Morgana’s first Dream.

***

Later, in the privacy of her chambers, Morgana heated her dagger above a candle-flame and dragged its point down her arm until her blood ran free.

***

TWO YEARS LATER

Morgana’s limbs ached from untwisting the covers, and her back prickled with sweat in the summer heat. Most upsetting, however, were the images pressed to the back of her eyelids. She’d run into Tammy in the lower town that day, and the redhead danced through her thoughts, frock nowhere to be seen. Morgana clenched her teeth and finally, finally, slid her fingers between her legs. She fell asleep hating herself.

In her sleep, she saw a freckled girl with large brown eyes fringed with long lashes and masses of dark curls rolling down the back of her purple dress. She was walking through the streets of Camelot, one arm threaded through a basket. Sunlight reflected from her eyes bringing out the dark gold twined in the dark brown. The girl was coming to the end of a market stall when a horse galloped from around the corner. It reared—the girl cried out—

Morgana bolted upright in bed, gasping. “Anna!” she cried out. “Anna!”

“My lady,” said Anna, hurrying out of her adjacent chambers. “What is troubling you?” Morgana couldn’t respond; she could do nothing but weep into Anna’s arms.

***

The next day, Morgana rose early and dressed herself as best she could, not wanting to trouble her nurse. A wild anxiety roved through her limbs, and she found her hand was shaking when she went to open the door. It was a quiet morning both inside and outside the citadel, the market just setting up for the day. Morgana wandered between the rows of wares, trying to find the spot from her dream and attempting not to feel like an utter fool. The sunlight and the crowd grew together, and Morgana’s stomach eventually began to growl. She traded a gem off her bracelet for a loaf of bread—about fifty times its price, but the man running the stall had seemed so hungry himself—and tore off bits as she walked. Her nighttime fear dissipated more and more as the morning progressed, and Morgana was just about to turn back when a snatch of familiar purple caught her eye.

The girl! Morgana froze; it felt as if there were ice in her blood. A moment later, she tucked the remains of her bread into her skirts and followed a few paces behind the girl, whose basket dangled off a few fingers. Morgana watched as the girl haggled over a few apples and won, walking off with with her basket _hanging off her arm_. And she was coming to the end of the—

Morgana raced against time, her arms and legs pumping furiously. The girl was almost at the end of the corridor of stalls, and once she reached the end…Another burst of speed, and Morgana came up behind the girl just as the horse rounded the corner. It reared in confusion, and Morgana lunged, shoving herself and the girl out of harm’s way. They lay there even after the horse galloped on, followed by its pleading master.

“You saved my life,” the girl said, when they’d both stopped panting. Morgana flushed.

“It was just luck,” she said. “I’m Morgana.”

“Gwen,” said the girl, and frowned. “Morga…oh! You’re the king’s ward!” Gwen hastily got to her feet and performed a clumsy curtsy.

“No, no,” said Morgana, displeased. “None of that. I want us to be friends.”

And so it was that when Anna retired two months later, Morgana brought Gwen on as her maid.

***

The years passed, as years do, with woman after woman catching Morgana’s fancy. For each one, a new mark joined her left arm, until she had to switch to her right. The only on who could bring her out of her own head was Gwen; Gwen who soothed her wounds with milk and pressed away her tears.

  
And as the years passed, Morgana’s heart tilted toward Gwen’s as a sunflower turns its face to the sun. It happened so slowly that she did not realize what had happened until breakfast one May morning, when Gwen smiled over a piece of fruit and Morgana’s breath caught.

This would not do. When Gwen moved to take Morgana’s plate, Morgana flinched. “Is everything all right?” said Gwen, putting her hands down.

“Let’s go for a walk,” said Morgana, desperate to leave her chambers. Outside, Arthur was running the knights through their paces, and Gwen stopped to watch. Morgana batted down her jealousy.

“You enjoy watching those oafs strike each other round the head?”

“I’m trying to figure out how much Sir Bors has had to drink,” Gwen retorted.

“Bors?” said Morgana, starting to smile. “Sir Galahad would have his head. Neither of them have touched a drop in…” but she trailed off. Sir Bores _was_ wending about rather oddly, his sword trailing like a forgotten stick from one hand. “Oh, my.”

“Oh, my, indeed,” said Gwen, her voice thrilling with amusement. “Do you think Galahad knows?”

“He suspects something,” Morgana decided. “Do you see the way he’s staring?”

“Oh, now he’s going up to him…what do you think he’s saying?”

“I am very displeased, Bors,” Morgana said in a gruff voice. “I thought we had an agreement to be unpopular rule-followers until the day we died.”

“Oh, Gal,” Gwen responded, “I am sorry to inform you that I am switching my denomination from devotee to drunkard.” Morgana and Gwen both burst into laughter, earning a dirty look from Arthur.

“Come along, dear Gwen,” said Morgana, crooking her elbow. “I don’t think our company is wanted here.” They left the knights behind and walked along the eastern section of the walls. There was no one around but the two of them, and Morgana looked fondly down at Gwen’s round, cheerful face. That familiar feeling stirred in her stomach, and she abruptly dropped her arm from Gwen’s. She balanced uncertainly for a moment, her heart stricken, then brought her trembling hands to cup Gwen’s face.

“My lady?” said Gwen, blinking in confusion. “What’s wrong?”

“Gwen,” Morgana breathed. “There’s something wrong with me.”

Now Gwen looked really worried, bringing her hands up to cover Morgana’s. “Whatever’s wrong, you can tell me, I promise.”

“I can’t,” said Morgana. “I can’t.” But as she spoke, her face got closer to Gwen’s, until there was naught but a slip of air between them. Their lips touched. It was soft, so much softer than Morgana could have imagined, like kissing a cloud. They leaned into each other, their mouths opening for each other like twin locks. For a moment, all was perfect.

And then Morgana heart burned, and she yanked herself away. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Gwen, I’m so, so, so sorry.”

Gwen shook her head, bewildered. “Morgana, I—”

“You’re dismissed for the day, Gwen. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Morgana!” said Gwen, but Morgana ducked her head and hurried away.

***

And now it would finally be over. The blood ran over Morgana’s arms and dripped down the side of the bed, hitting the stone with a gruesome trickling. From so far away, a voice:

_MORGANA!_

Morgana’s eyes fluttered, and she moaned quietly. She just wanted to sleep. Nothing hurt and everything ached at the same time. Thoughts floated on the edge of nothingness. She felt a faint pressure on her arms, but it wasn’t enough to draw her back entirely. Everything was going dark.

And then she was drifting away, drifting into a vague world of half-shapes and flat sounds, where nothing was real but the thread of her breath, and even that sometimes faded away.

***

When Morgana opened her eyes, it was a new day. She wondered why her bed was so hard, and why the sunlight was so muted. “Gwen?” she tried, but her throat was sore and tight.

“Morgana,” a relieved voice said. “You’re awake, my child.” Someone propped up the back of her head, and a cool draught of water flowed down her throat. She drank until she became nauseated. “Gwen?” she said again, when the water-skin was moved away.

“She’s here,” said the voice, and by now Morgana was aware enough to tell that the voice belonged to Gaius, and that she was in his chambers. “She’s been by your side all night.” Gaius pointed, and Morgana saw that Gwen was on a low bench, sleeping sitting up. For a moment, nothing there was nothing but relief.

Then the memories of the past day came flooding back, and tears bit at Morgana’s eyes. How could Gwen ever want to be her friend, now that she knew the truth? Now that she knew the demon that wore Morgana’s skin?

As if she could feel the pressure of Morgana’s eyes on her, Gwen stirred. “Morgana?” she said sleepily. And then: “Morgana! Oh, my God, Morgana, Morgana!” Gwen hurried from her spot by the wall and grabbed Morgana’s hands in her own.

“You have Gwen to thank for saving your life,” Gaius said over her shoulder. “As it was, it was almost too late when she found you.”

“Could I have a moment with Gwen?” said Morgana, her lips numb with fear. Gaius and Gwen exchanged a look, and then Gaius nodded.

“I have a few patients to attend to in the lower town. I leave Morgana in your care, Gwen.” There was a silence when the door shut behind him.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Gwen said finally. “I’m so furious, Morgana.”

Morgana tried to think of something to say. “I’m sorry.”

“Not good enough,” said Gwen, her eyes bright with tears. “Don’t you ever do that again, Morgana. Don’t ever leave me.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Morgana. “I’m sorry for…for corrupting you.”

Gwen’s brow wrinkled. “For corrupting me? Do you mean…do you mean _kissing_ me?”

“It wasn’t right,” Morgana said quietly. “I am a woman, and you are a woman. My designs on you were unnatural.”

Red heat flared in Gwen’s cheeks. “Unnatural? That’s what you call women like us? Is this why you hurt yourself? Because you think there’s something wrong with you? There’s nothing wrong with you, Morgana! Nothing at all! Some women like women! There’s nothing unnatural about that!” Gwen was crying with earnestness, her tears dripping hot onto Morgana’s cheeks.

“Women like us,” Morgana repeated.

“Women like us,” said Gwen. “Women who love women.”

Morgana stifled a sob, and cried out in pain when she tried to bring a hand to her mouth. Her arms blazed in pain. “Gwen,” she tried. “Gwen.”

“I love you, too,” said Gwen, anger still rippling through her words. “I love you, and there’s nothing wrong with you, and I’m so mad, you have no idea.” They were both crying, now, and Gwen knelt down with her head to Morgana’s chest. The weight comforted Morgana, evened her breathing. She was getting tired again, the room swirling away.

“I’m sorry,” she said for the hundredth time.

“Next time,” said Gwen, “just say you love me.”

Morgana fell asleep with her hands in Gwen’s.


End file.
